


Poetry

by PajamaSecrets



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:04:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PajamaSecrets/pseuds/PajamaSecrets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is curious about a little black journal on Sherlock's desk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poetry

There was a plain black book that sat on Sherlock Holmes' desk (amongst the chemical concoctions, petri dishes, crime scene photos, and the occasional human eyeball).

John was curious about it, he hadn't seen it before. What was in that book? His schedule? No, it would have the year on it if it were a yearly planner. It looked like it was just one of those journals with blank pages.

What was it, then? Violin compositions? But he wrote those on print-outs of blank sheet music. Not his schedule, not his compositions...Then, drawings, perhaps, although he'd never seen Sherlock sketch before.

John knew it wasn't a diary. Definitely wasn't. Sherlock wasn't the type to write out his _feelings._

He glanced at his phone for the time. 6:30 PM. Sherlock had said he'd be home by seven. Could he risk a peek?

John's curiosity overtook him. He walked over to Sherlock's desk and picked up the little book, opening it to the inner cover.

_June 12, 2008  
To Sherlock  
I would appreciate it very much if you wrote down your thoughts here instead of reaching for the… distractions. I know you get bored, but please try to keep yourself clean.  
From your dearest brother,  
Mycroft_

Well, Mycroft did worry about Sherlock, that was true. John doubted that Sherlock had used this journal for that purpose, though.

So what did he use it for? John licked the tip of his finger to ease the turn to the next page, and was shocked at what he found.

A collection of poems.

All written in Sherlock's slightly mangled yet still elegant handwriting.

He flipped through the pages. The earlier ones were a bit scary and jumbled; John really couldn't make sense of them. Considering the date of Mycroft's message, Sherlock must have been in the thick of his drug issues.

As he flipped through the pages, the poems eventually became more lengthy and structured. There was one titled _Murderer_ which particularly frightened John.

_You are careful, yet far from wise  
With that look of horror in your eyes  
You hide in the dark with a knife in your mind  
And I can't thank you enough for being so kind  
To let me in, and devour you whole  
To eat up your brain and your heart and your soul  
I'm such a flirt, a tease, a scare  
I promise I'll find you no matter where  
You hide, in the dark with death in your mind  
Really, you are one of a kind._

Sherlock really did like murderers, but writing an ode to one? Creepy. Yet undoubtedly very Sherlock. John turned the next page to a poem called _Bored._

_There is nothing to this world of ours  
With its flashing lights and jutting towers  
Emptiness is all I see  
In this broken world of vanity.  
Nothing more, nothing less  
It's all fading, I confess  
Life is empty, boring, bare  
This long and fading life we share._

Understandable. The world is boring. He's heard that before.

The next poem was a bit unusual for Sherlock. It was titled _Imaginary Lovers._

_The knight in shining armor rescues me  
Inside my pitiful and drowsy dream  
I know that me his eyes will never see  
For things are simply never as they seem.  
I want a hand to hold, a heart to touch  
A simple smiling lover that is mine  
And I can just forget that things are such  
When I am in the confines of my mind.  
Although I've never loved, my heart has longed  
And so my ghostly lover lives within  
And he will never know that he's been wronged  
For he is just a substitute, a whim.  
Until things are no longer quite amiss  
Imaginary lovers will exist._

A Shakespearian sonnet, John noted. Also, judging from the use of the male pronoun, Sherlock was most definitely gay. That was not unexpected, but John really did think that Sherlock pushed away those thoughts from his brain in favor of leaving more room for his deductions and mysteries. Perhaps this was the book where he shoved those thoughts. He turned the page to the poem _In the Sense._

_Why does this happen to my heart  
My heart, the poor old thing  
It always picks what makes it tick  
What makes it flip and sing._

_Voices, limbs, and lips, and hair  
It fixates, ne'er relents  
Sharpened eyes explore and spy  
A moment, in the sense._

_I want to play a song for him  
A song of love, or lust  
A song that makes me gaze into  
The eyes I long to trust._

Yikes. Someone has a crush, and has it bad. Poor Sherlock. Maybe John could encourage him to pursue this man. God knows Sherlock needed a little sex in his life. It would certainly loosen him up a little. The next poem, Contact, wasn't much different from the last one.

_It is nothing more  
Than light brushing or bumping from lips to lips  
Or an embrace with a touching from hips to hips.  
Then why do I ache  
For contact with you?  
Any contact will do.  
A hand touching mine  
A heartbeat  
My arm 'twined with yours.  
Our eyes meet  
And my spirits soar  
I wish you would love me  
A little bit more._

Gosh, who was this man? John turned the page, eager to discover more.

 _Having fun, John?_ it read.

John felt a little bit guilty.

But Sherlock had left his journal out knowing John would be nosy and read it. Why would Sherlock want John to read his poetry? Probably to show off. John chuckled and set the journal back in its place.

***

When Sherlock returned from his milk-as-well-as-several-dangerous-chemicals shopping run, John was sitting on the sofa, editing one of his recent blog posts.

"Got the milk," Sherlock announced, stuffing it in the fridge along with whatever other lethal chemicals he had bought. _We really need to get a separate fridge for chemicals and body parts_ , John mused.

Sherlock went over to his desk, checked over the little black journal, decided that John must have read it, and said, "Did you enjoy the poems?"

"Very much. You're a talented writer," John nodded, keeping his eyes on the computer screen.

"To be expected. Any idiot could write poetry, it's a very simple writing form. In fact, many idiots have. I consider myself an improvement over them."

John hoped he wasn't talking about John's emails to his girlfriends, but he probably was. "Thought you didn't like to read poetry," John said.

"Doesn't mean I don't like to write it," Sherlock replied.

After a moment's consideration, John cleared his throat and spoke. "Are things, ah, progressing? I mean, with this man you like and everything."

"Well, if they progress, they progress. I won't push it. Takes too much effort and a bit more stupidity than I possess." Sherlock smiled, looking straight into John's eyes. "But maybe one day I'll have the courage, John."


End file.
